


house of memories

by ameneurosis (orphan_account)



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Probably ooc, alphys and g are p much only mentioned they're not like Actually in it, memory problems, not dadster, not fontcest, overuse of em dashes, really vague
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-30 23:55:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8554672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ameneurosis
Summary: (It's a poorly drawn picture of three smiling people.) (Written on it...) "don't forget."





	

**Author's Note:**

> i've never written anything for undertale before but this idea randomly wedged itself into my brain at 3 am so here's some tired trash. (didn't rly re-read it, but if there are any Super Glaringly Obvious errors can u point them out to me so i can fix it?? tyvm)

sans isn’t much of an artist -- whether it’s lack of application or just downright being bad at it, snow blobs are about as far as he can get.

which is why it’s a bit odd for him to be hunched over a piece of scrap paper, scribbling furiously, eyes squinted in frustrated concentration.

he’s holding the pencil awkwardly, there’s a wobbliness to the lines that shows how hard his hand’s shaking, and the previously whole eraser has been worn down to a nub, but he can’t _stop._

his memory is shit, that’s just a fact of life -- but, sometimes, there are thoughts, just _there_ , out of nowhere. spilling coffee on the sleeve of a lab coat that’s at least two sizes too big for him, a warm (rare?) laugh sounding from somewhere (sometime) behind him, warped like it’s playing from a bad tape, unfamiliar bones tapping absentmindedly against a metal tabletop and he feels like smiling fondly because he knows (why does he know?) that those hands never really stop moving.

sans has no idea where they come from, or why, but whenever he tries to forcefully trigger something, _anything_ , into recognition, he gets nothing but headaches and a feeling like cotton’s been stuffed into his skull to fill in the empty spaces. he forgets the snippets as fast as they come, too -- can never really recall the images described when he re-reads the sloppy, frantic handwriting in the journal he keeps for these things.

for some reason, just writing this one out feels like it’s not enough, though. he’s been at this long enough that he can’t remember what brought it on, but, the moment it hit, he’d immediately reached out for something relatively clean and blank, sketching frenziedly onto the -- wrapper? receipt? it didn’t matter.

it’s a poor depiction, but he feels like he fleshed out himself and alphys well enough. he’s spent the majority of his time and effort on the figure standing between them, only a couple features really standing out in his head. whenever he tries to picture the shape of the body that fits around the cracks in his eyes or the wrinkled turtleneck collar, whatever semblance of an idea he had just.. melts, fizzes out.

this is a precarious game, sans knows; if he thinks about it too hard, everything gets muddy to the point where he can’t go back to a clear image, but if he doesn’t keep thinking about it it’ll be lost. he compares the feeling to falling asleep, -- when one vaguely realizes that they’re thinking gibberish, only, when they really acknowledge it, they wake right back up -- just infinitely more maddening.

he just can’t fucking _focus_. if he had hair, he’d be tearing it out by now. with a sigh that’s equal parts aggravated and disappointed, he throws the pencil down, leaning back into his chair and looking at whatever he managed to create.

it’s.. bad. a toddler with a box of crayons could easily do better. still, looking at the guy he couldn’t have possibly done justice, he’s overcome with this disconnected, cold feeling of grief. it’s only amplified by how much he desperately wants to know why he’s forgotten all of this, or if anything he’s ‘remembering’ is even _real_. it feels real, to him, but that doesn’t mean much.

slowly, almost like an afterthought, he picks the pencil up again and carefully captions it, the nearly-neat handwriting contrasting with the mess of lines above it.

_don’t forget._


End file.
